The screeching of tires and the sound of metal crashing resounded through the street. A truck lost control and crashed into a crowd at an intersection in the center of the city. People screamed. Glass shattered. Bodies collided. Everything was chaotic.
He heard a loud scream. He reflexively rushed out of the sidewalk, grabbed the person in front of him, and pulled them out of the oncoming traffic.
A child was lying face down in the middle of the street, screaming. Next to him was an old woman who had been thrown from her wheelchair. Two young men lay motionless at the foot of a lamppost. The smell of burning rubber, blood, and gasoline fumes mixed together.
He was not a police officer. He was not a doctor. He was just a passerby. But his legs ran faster than his mind.
He picked up the child first, handing it to a panicking woman on the side of the road. Then he turned back, supporting the old woman who was crawling in a pool of blood. She cried, begged, but he said nothing. He just held her tight, pulling her away from the scene.
Two more people. One half-broken, one with a broken leg. He lifted one onto his back, staggering to the sidewalk. Turned back. Lifted the second person. Every step was a pain in his lungs as if being pricked by needles. Blood seeped from his shirt, but he didn't notice.
He pulled out his phone, his hand shaking.
"Ambulance... ambulance... intersection of Tran Quang and No. 5... someone died... hurry!"
The phone fell. He fell to his knees. His eyes were dizzy. But the sound of an ambulance siren echoed from afar. He stood up. One more time. He stood up, hailed an ambulance, and directed the nurses to each injured person.
"The baby—fine. The old lady—fine. The other two—broken bones, but breathing..."
The nurse turned to him, about to say something, but he had already sat down on the waiting bench. He was panting. Cold sweat ran down his forehead.
A doctor ran out, shouting:
"Put him in! The pulse is weak! Quickly!"
He nodded, closing his eyes. A smile crossed his lips. Finally... they were alive. He felt at peace.
He stood up. One step. Two steps.
Then he collapsed onto the cold stone floor.
"What's the victim's name?"
A nurse looked into his pocket, took out his student ID.
"Yin Yao. 17 years old."
The doctor tightened the strap of his mask, his voice low:
"He's the most seriously injured. Internal injuries ruptured. Three broken ribs. Too much blood loss..."
A silence fell.
"...but he got everyone here before his heart stopped."
White.
He opened his eyes. No more car horns. No more smell of blood.
The old wooden ceiling. Small windows. The faint smell of hot porridge.
A voice calling from downstairs:
"Yin Yao! Get up and have breakfast!"
He sat up abruptly.
Small fingers. Low desk. The face in the mirror—a 10-year-old child.
He had turned around.
His name was Yin Yao. 10 years old. And it seemed, he had just come back to life.